


the ghosts followed me home

by ayuminb, junsnow



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Accidental Incest, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Jon Becomes a Wildling, Alternate Universe - Jon Deserts the Watch, Alternate Universe - Jon Steals Alayne, Alternate Universe - Meeting Again as Strangers, Alternate Universe - No White Walkers, Alternate Universe - Road Trip Beyond the Wall, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, Cousin Incest, Eventual Romance, Except it's Mostly Angst, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Half-Sibling Incest, Kidnapping, Shit Hits the Fan in Epic Propotions, There's Some Fluff At Last, They Bang in Ch2, and then not so accidental incest. but they're not really siblings so chill!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2018-08-17
Packaged: 2019-02-24 06:37:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13208079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ayuminb/pseuds/ayuminb, https://archiveofourown.org/users/junsnow/pseuds/junsnow
Summary: The South had taken everything—his brothers and sisters and Father—everything he'd ever loved. So it's only fair that Jon takes something back.-When rumours spread that Petyr Baelish has brought his daughter—a beautiful girl named Alayne—with him in his visit to the Wall, a certain wildling might steal her away without knowing her true identity.





	1. The Stealing

It is Ghost who forces his hand. Ghost and his ill-placed curiosity.

 

Jon is very aware of the consequences of getting caught nearing the Wall—death being the least painful of them, really, with Thorne as the new Lord Commander. The man hated him enough to try his best to have Jon suffer as much as humanly possible before letting him die. Which is why _this_ —sneaking through the passages under the Nightfort—is the most idiotic thing he had done since… _since_. But Ghost is relentless as he leads through the passages under The Nightfort and then through the woods towards Castle Black—he won't stop, no matter how many times Jon tries to make him turn back.

 

 _There is nothing for us on this side of The Wall_ , he wants to say, but doesn’t. He follows; then the whispers start reaching his ears, and it is Jon who won't go back. The Lord Protector of the Vale has traveled far and wide to reach Castle Black, in the company of his daughter, to seemingly treat with the new Lord Commander. That fact alone is surprising; Jon knows southron Lords have no interest in the Night's Watch, but to come North with his daughter? His _very beautiful_ daughter if rumors are to be believed? This is something Jon definitely wants to see.

 

Sneaking into Castle Black is ridiculously easy, and Jon manages to find a hidden spot that provides him an uninterrupted view of the yard as Thorne entertains his guests. Jon ignores the men, the Crows and the knights of the Vale. He focuses solely on the girl, her dainty hands holding tight to her cloak, a hood drawn over her head—until the man he assumes is her father beckons her forward. Her hands go up to pull back the hood. There's a flash of color and his chest _hurts_ —and then it’s gone. Brown hair falls around her shoulders.

 

Jon frowns, thinking his trip might have been in vain, his curiosity a waste of time. Yes, the girl was beautiful, but nothing that would warrant the near reverence of the whispers he'd heard. He thinks he shouldn’t have bothered coming—until she looks up, straight at him, bright blue eyes locking with his own grey ones. She blinks, and his breath hitches—maybe, all had not been for nothing.

 

Jon slips away before anyone else can notice him.

 

***

 

He comes back the next day, sneaks in, perches himself in the same hidden spot, and watches.

 

The usual patterns unfold. Jon repeats his actions three more times, until he comes to a decision. It's not one he takes lightly, not something he'd ever thought he would want to do. Not after—just never again. Yet. Yet… Jon memorizes the routine, and when the girl is left alone to return to what he knows to be the chambers assigned to her, he follows, silently. He intercepts her after they round a corner, arm wrapping around her waist and free hand coming up to cover her mouth. Saying nothing, he's quick to navigate the halls that once were his home, carrying the girl's weight easily. It surprises him a little that she's not fighting him off, or trying to.

 

He stops once they reach the unattended entrance he had used to sneak in, places her feet on the ground, and turns her around—he gasps—she's even more beautiful up close than she had been from afar. He takes in her high cheekbones, her long eyelashes, her pretty pink lips. Jon feels something—a memory perhaps, tugging at the back of his mind, and at the remains of his heart—but he can't be sure.

 

"My Lady," he says, voice rough from little use. It makes her shake, yet she still doesn't scream, doesn’t try to fight him. "I'm going to steal you away, from your father and your home."

 

 _Away from everything you know_ , goes unsaid. There's no need for it—Jon's decided and he no longer has it in him to feel remorse from his actions. The South had taken everything and everyone he'd once loved away from him. _It's only fair then_ , he thinks, as he moves swiftly to knock her unconscious and carry her away, _that I return the favor, in whatever small way I can_.

 

***

 

She wakes up slowly. The sky is dark and clear above her, so littered with stars like she’s never seen before. She looks around her, taking in her surroundings. The beauty she finds takes her breath away _. I must be beyond the wall_ , she thought, _that man_ —

 

“You’re awake. Finally.” His deep voice calls out.

 

She takes a good look at him then, and is surprised by what she finds. He’s slender, but strong, covered in dark furs. His hair is dark as well, a beautiful mess of curls almost reaching his shoulders, and his dark beard can’t hide his handsome features. But it’s his eyes that impress her the most. She’s seen those eyes before… Yes, back at Castle Black, she caught his gaze. Dark, like the rest of him, but warm and kind, too. It startles her.

 

 

 _How can he be kind if he stole me?_ _What does he want with me?_ Sansa shudders. Men only want one thing from a pretty girl like her. Petyr had taught her that. She tries to hide her fear and sticks out her chin when she spoke.

 

“Who are you?”

 

“A free man,” he answers simply.

 

“A wildling?”

 

“You can call me as you wish, Alayne.”

 

“You know my name?”

 

“I’ve been watching ye. You noticed that, didn’t you, Alayne?”

 

She _had_ noticed. She’d felt his gaze on her, back at the Wall, had expected him to be up to something, but when he finally acted she froze. She looks at the stranger now, pensive. _Petyr must be furious_ , she muses. She’s never seen him lose his temper, but she knows she was his most prized possession. Would he be sending a search party for her? Would the Night’s Watch even bother to rescue a bastard girl from a wildling? Is she destined to be _his_ now, this strange man from a different culture, who sought to steal her for himself? Would he be any different from the others who tried to claim her before? If she has the chance to escape, can she survive in this frozen landscape and find her way to Wall alone? Sansa sighs. She has too many questions and no answers in sight.

 

She will have to bide her time, and learn what she can of this man.

 

***

 

For the most part, Jon's plan is straightforward—take the girl, _Alayne Stone_ , with him beyond the Wall. Just that. He'd not thought of what to do after, other than keeping them both alive, and thinking back, he'd not thought at all of the consequences of his actions either.

 

 _There's time_ , he thinks, a few days later, while they stop their journey to eat some of the food he'd pilfered before crossing the passages under the Nightfort. _They'll not send a search party this way yet, I was careful._

 

Ghost had helped lead the way, but still made himself scarce, not letting Alayne see him. Were it not for his single-mindedness to get them as far away from The Wall as it is possible, Jon would've found it odd. As it is, he has more important things on his mind.

 

Casting a quick glance at his current companion, he thinks he might have to do something about her clothes; while fine for Castle Black, it's obvious they'd not been made to travel this far north. She shivers due to the cold, day and night. She’d stopped complaining about how _improper_ the sleeping arrangements were rather fast that first night, and pressed closer to him to keep warm.

 

Now, she eats quietly, with little enthusiasm, nestled closely against his side, and Jon can't help but find her fascinating, this southron girl. He'd not known what to expect, really, when he decided to steal her, but it wasn't this muted defiance he feels lingering about her, this steely resolve to endure.

 

"You won't try to escape?" He asks later.

 

He had not bound her to him—by all means, she could have escaped at any given moment since waking up.

 

"I wouldn't survive traveling these lands alone, ser."

 

"I'm not a knight," he snaps, then clenches his jaw, pushing back memories he wishes were banished already. Then, softly, "I apologize, my lady."

 

Alayne doesn't seem to be offended; he can never tell if it's all a mask or if she really is that unmoved.

 

"You're very well spoken," she replies after a moment. "…for a wildling, in any case."

 

Jon blinks at her, but says nothing.

 

"You won't tell me your name, said I could call you as I wished, yet you snap at me when I choose to do so," another pause, she looks at him intently.

 

 _She's studying me_ , he realizes suddenly, _has been looking out for my reactions_. Jon frowns, finishes the last of his food, and then stands abruptly.

 

"Come," he offers his hand before he can properly process—curses the fact that this girl seems to bring forth all those lessons on chivalry and propriety he thought long forgotten. "We've to keep moving."

 

Alayne takes his hand still, lets him pull her up and keep his hold without complaints as they resume their journey.

 

"May I ask where are we going?"

 

"A cave."

 

"Why did you steal me? I've heard…” she takes a deep breath, “I've heard _why_ wildlings steal women, but…" _But he'd done nothing to her_ , it's what she means. He stole her, but hadn't touched her beyond the need to keep warm, or to help her trek through the woods.

 

"Revenge,” he spits out.

 

"On—on my lord father?"

 

Jon stops, turns, and pierces her with his gaze.

 

"The South, Alayne," it's obvious she doesn't understand. "The South took—" his brothers and sisters and father; his family, every single person he'd loved "— _eveything_ from me."

 

He steps closer, lifts his free hand to stroke her reddened cheek, suddenly wishing he weren't using gloves.

 

"…So I decided to take something back."

 

"But I am just a bastard girl, of no consequence to—"

 

"You are a beloved daughter," and Jon doesn't miss the way her jaw clenches, her body stiffens, "I'm sure it won't be long before your lord father sends search parties our way. It's why we must keep moving."

 

He pulls her forward, but she doesn't budge, not this time. Alayne digs her heels on the snow and looks as defiant as she possibly can, refusing to move.

 

"That sword," his heart skips a beat, "is Valyrian steel. Where did you get it? My—my _father_ asked the Lord Commander," she inhales, and glares at him, "about a boy. One of his men, _Jon Snow_."

 

"I don't know—"

 

" _Where did you get it?_ " she repeats harshly.

 

Alayne advances on him, impressive in her rage, though Jon cannot for the life of him understand why.

 

"Lord Commander Thorne had little good to say about him, about Jon Snow, but if Lord Commander Mormont gave him his own ancestral sword—"

 

"I don't—"

 

"The pommel is a white wolf, with red eyes.” She presses on, “a _direwolf_ , the sigil of House Stark. Jon Snow is the bastard son of Eddard Stark!"

 

It's only after he's moved that Jon realizes he has a tight grip on her wrist, but Alayne doesn't back down as her own hand grips the pommel of Longclaw. Jon has to wonder how long she's been burning to ask, to demand an explanation from him.

 

"Lord Commander Thorne said he was killed," the soft whisper of her voice breaks, making something in him _ache_ and tug at the remains of his heart, at the edges of his mind. "He said Jon Snow was a turncloak and a deserter, and that he lost his life for it."

 

 _Who are you_ , the question circles his mind; her blue eyes drill into his, and he feels like he's missing something— _you know nothing, Jon Snow_. Oh, it's been a long time since he's heard that voice in his head.

 

"I found it," his words seem to deflate her, "now come, we must keep going."

 


	2. The Cave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their journey takes them further north as feelings arise, making things slightly complicated - until they give in, and then it's not complicated at all.

Sansa watches him day and night. She tries getting him to talk, but his responses are always monosyllabic. _I might as well try talking to the Wall itself_ , she thinks dourly.

 

It seems he knows nothing of her bastard brother after all, and she has to resign herself to the fact that he is gone, just like the rest of them, dead somewhere. The thought makes her heart ache. They were never close, she and Jon, but he was her blood all the same, and she had clung to the thought of him as her last hope for family.

 

As for the wildling… As much as she tries, she can’t help but be intrigued by him. His story about wanting revenge against the South doesn’t convince her in the least. She’s seen the way he looks at her; has felt how his manhood would poke against her when they share his furs at night. He wants her. It’s as simple as that.

 

Yet he would not take her. _Unless_ … An idea forms in her mind, dropping over her like a bucket of scalding water. Perhaps there _is_ a way to make him talk; Petyr had taught her how to best manipulate men. She remembers Cersei’s words as well, though the memory feels like a lifetime away: _a woman’s best weapon is between her legs._ _Yes_. She will get her answers.

 

That night, when they lay together in his furs, Sansa burrows closer to him—she could already feel his hardness against her backside. Then, innocently as she can, she rubs against him, letting a gasp escape her lips. He groans, one hand coming around to grasp her hip. She starts a slow grind, feeling his hold on her tighten as he starts to rut against her, eagerly upping the tempo.

 

When he spends inside his breeches with a grunt, she turns around to lay a sweet kiss by his jaw. He flushes.

 

“You—”

 

She shushes him. “Tomorrow,” she whispers as she lays her head on his chest and falls asleep.

 

She is taking control now, whether he knows it or not.

 

***

 

 _Tomorrow_ , Jon is still as shocked as he was the night before. He doesn't know how to bring up what happened and, other than give him looks that leave him aching to touch her, Alayne says nothing at all either. But she _does_ things; crowds him, grabs his arm, nestles into his side whenever the opportunity arises—which seems to be _always_ now. The nights are no different.

 

Oh, he wants her alright, there'd been more than just revenge when he decided to steal her. He acknowledges that. Alayne is the most beautiful woman he's ever seen since leaving Winterfell. Of course he wants her, but he's not about to force his desires on her.

 

 _Tis not like I have to, anyway_ , he thinks as once again, she begins grinding into his hardened cock. She gets bolder as the nights pass, she wastes no time before she makes her move; at the very least, Jon has enough restraint to let her make the first move every time.

 

He feels his release mounting quickly, suddenly wants to make her peak as well, but is unsure if he should touch her, if he's allowed to. This, him rocking against her with his hand on her hip seems to be their unspoken agreement. Of course Jon wants more, wants to touch her, feel the heat of her skin against his own, the wetness between her legs— _Gods_. He wants her whole. Jon props himself onto his elbow, slides the hand on her hip to her lower abdomen, rasps her name in the shell of her ear and waits.

 

Alayne tries to keep moving, but he presses closer, stops her despite the painful strain of his cock. He'd rather find out how far she's willing to go now. She looks at him over her shoulder intently, the dim light of the dying fire gives her hair a reddish glow, bright like the leaves of a weirwood tree—the words tumble past his lips before he can stop them.

 

"I want to touch you," Jon swallows, feels nervous though he can't understand why, "can I?"

 

"Touch me where?"

 

Briefly, Jon considers the delicate approach, but the thought of being blunt looks much more appealing now.

 

"Your cunt."

 

It's warm under the furs, but she shivers; Alayne looks away, then back at him again, and there's a glint of something in her blue eyes—Jon feels so very entranced. She shifts until she lays on her back, lifting her skirts until they bunch around her hips. The urge to pounce on her is strong, but Jon resists, needing to have her permission first. Alayne parts her legs for him, looks so _fucking_ innocent with her reddened cheeks, he almost thinks of pulling away. But then she grabs his hand, places it on her exposed thigh—

 

"No one's ever touched me."

 

Jon's pretty sure he whimpers. They'll reach the cave tomorrow, the one with the hot springs; they've been making due with any river that's not been frozen over to clean themselves, but a hot spring…

 

He's eager to get her out of her pretty gown now, would rip it off her if she allowed it, now that he'd procured warmer clothes for her in his hunts. But that's all for tomorrow—now, hand sliding under her smallclothes, feeling her hot and wet and wanting, Jon will indulge in this.

 

***

 

She is torn for a second, before deciding to let him touch her—her _cunt_ , she forced herself to think. Sansa Stark would never use such a word, but Alayne Stone certainly can. She finds bravery in the bastard girl, enough to spread her legs for him.

 

 _Alayne wouldn’t lie to herself either_ , she thinks. _Alayne could admit to wanting this. Wanting_ him _, his touch._

She gasps when his rough hand connects with her core, gathering wetness in his fingers before circling her clit. Sansa feels her nipples harden against her clothes, wishing he were touching them, too.

 

Despite the cold around them, she feels hot all over, like she hadn’t felt since they’d left the Wall. She’s biting her lip, trying to keep in the sounds that want to come flying out of her throat, when he slips his fingers inside—it’s like a flood is unleashed, and she finally lets her moans slip free from her lips as she trembles beneath him.

 

She’s almost embarrassed to look up at him, but when she does, the look in his eyes makes her gasp—it’s filled with both tenderness and hunger, a combination she never saw before. It occurs to her then that she was as much in awe of him as he was of her. This isn’t what she expected—she’s been told that men would _take_ things from her, use her, take their pleasure from her body and leave her with nothing. But _this_ man, whose name she doesn’t even know, had chosen not to take her despite her being alone with him every night. He had chosen to wait for her permission; had chosen to give _her_ pleasure, which is something she never even considered before.

 

He is not like them, this wildling of hers. If she were younger, and still innocent, she would swoon and call him a hero from a song—and what a beautiful song it would be, of a wildling boy and a noble girl, coming together under the stars of the northern sky. She knows now life is not a song, but she swoons all the same. She reaches out for him, kissing him on the lips for the first time.

 

***

 

He can see the outcrop marking the entrance to the cave. He looks briefly at Alayne, noting the dirt streaking her pale cheeks and mumbles they'd be there soon. She smiles sweetly, squeezes his hand, and Jon feels his body burn even at such innocent contact. She's no longer tense and defensive. _She wants me_ , he thinks, mind wandering to the night before—that sweet first kiss that nearly unmanned him, made him rut against her after he'd touched her until she'd peaked around his fingers.

 

 _What a glorious thing it would be_ , he thinks, _to feel her cunt flutter around my cock_. But Jon would rather have her completely bare for that. He'd like to undress her slowly, with care, show her he's not a savage—even though he's supposed to be one.

 

 _Alayne_. This girl keeps bringing forth a desire to be chivalrous and gentle in him. _Like a hero in a song_ , the words echo within his head, soft and distant, but he pushes them away before they can take over.

 

She still calls him 'ser', for lack of a name—he won't tell her his name, and at this point, after what they'd done during their journey up here, it's making him wonder why he insists in keeping it secret.

 

But he knows why, he remembers that moment a few days ago—her blazing eyes and fearless attitude as she'd demanded answers he could not give. _It's safer like this._ Jon's not sure who she is, how she knows of him. Littlefinger's bastard should not even concern herself with a turncloak from the Night's Watch.

 

The glimpses he's caught of Ghost on the journey here are yet another reason to halt his desire to reveal himself; his direwolf will simply not approach him while Alayne is nearby, Jon cannot understand why, knows it's not due to any kind of mistrust in the girl at all. It's something else, and until he finds out what it is, the mystery will have to remain.

 

"Aemon," says Alayne, suddenly, giving him a teasing smile as they make their way uphill towards the cave. "Prince Aemon the Dragonknight, that's what I'll call you."

 

"I look nothing like him, m'lady," he's quick to deny, pushing back the memories that try to force their way out and there—the way her blue eyes shine with mirth make him want to reach out and grasp at _something_.

 

"So you _are_ from south of The Wall,” Alayne smiles in triumph as she continues, “Northern too, I'd guess, by your accent."

 

"How can I be from _south_ of the Wall, if I'm also _northern_ , m'lady?"

 

He tries to get her there, witty enough to deflect—to evade her inquisitive eyes and what's sure to be the realization that she's dangerously close to the truth.

 

"Northern, as in from the lands ruled by my—by the Starks of Winterfell," she explains.

 

They're both, it seems, spared of a potential unwanted disclosure, because just then they reach the entrance of the cave. As he expected, Alayne gasps in wonder, hurrying into what will be their home for the foreseeable future.

 

***

 

He fixes them with a small fire, enough to both keep them warm and cook the hare Ghost brought to him earlier that day. Later, after he is done washing up in the hot spring, he is faced with a blushing Alayne when he comes out. She looks at him as if she'd just seen a ghost herself, and then hurries off to bathe as he had. Jon shrugs, and goes to cook them their food. Only he can't quite concentrate on it, can't ignore the splashing sounds behind him. He feels each one of her contented sighs shoot straight to his groin and _Gods_ , he'd jump right back in with her if she would have him.

 

"My wildling lover," her words send shivers down his spine, "I wish you'd tell me your name."

 

He turns away from the skinned hare, crouched next to the fire, and stares at Alayne. This beautiful bastard girl, whose life had been probably much like his own growing up, returns his intense look over her shoulder, sitting at the edge of the of the spring, clad only in her shift. Her _wet_ , traslucent shift. He stands and moves silently to kneel behind her, keeping their gazes locked.

 

"Why d’you want to know so badly?"

 

She looks away and Jon takes the opportunity to take in the sight of her; the tantalizing curve of her spine, her waist, her hips; the hint of her ass and the swell of her tits. He aches to touch it all, to have her coming apart underneath him once again, this time without any barriers between them. He wonders, amused, how it’s possible for her hair to be lighter at the roots and grow darker as it goes. The fire is too far to provide a good view, so he can't be sure, but she might dye her hair.

 

Alayne turns to give him a shy smile. "I wish to know what name to call out while you please me. I think you'd like that. I know I’d like it too, to hear you say my name when I please you."

 

" _Alayne_ ," her name comes out as a moan. He doesn't let her say another word, moving in close to her, to press hot kisses to the column of her neck. "Would you let me touch you?"

 

She gasps, shudders, and urges his hands to touch her now.

 

"Like this? Like last night?" He asks. Her legs part to make way for his hands and Jon groans.

 

"Yes, but more,” she breathes.

 

"More?" Jon searches her eyes, seeking the same _want_ he feels burning in his own. He finds it.

 

He kisses her lips then, long and deep, and leaves her breathless before pulling away, only long enough to remove all of his clothing. Naked as his nameday, Jon slips into the spring and moves to stand before her. Alayne blushes a bright red, matching the shade her hair gets in the fire, as her eyes lock on his hard cock. Jon flashes her a quick smile, a tad shy, before sinking to his knees and shouldering her legs further apart.

 

"Like this," he says, before diving in for the first taste of her cunt.

 

***

 

When his tongue first comes into contact with her core, Sansa loses her breath. It’s not something she could have ever imagined—the feeling of his tongue, deliciously wet and warm, working her up and down before slipping inside her—she gasps in surprise as much as in pleasure. He’s taken hold of all her senses—Everything is _him_ ; his hot mouth on her cunt, his curls beneath by her fingers, his musky scent, his strong hands grasping her bottom, his dark eyes looking into hers as she moans for him to keep going, to never stop.

 

She moans with every thrust of his tongue inside her, edging closer to that new feeling he coaxed from her last night—that tightness in her belly, building towards a climax. When he brings his thumb to circle her nub, she finally finds it again, an ecstasy so strong it brings tears to her eyes and a scream to her throat.

 

She’s still recovering from her high, still trembling, when she notices him still lapping at her, as if trying to enjoy every last drop of a delicious treat. Sansa’s heart skips at the image, bringing him up to thank him with an affectionate, open-mouthed kiss. She moans at the sweet and tart taste of herself she finds in his mouth. It brings the burning in her loins to a blaze, desperate to have more of him. She pushes him away then, so she can raise her shift over her head, baring herself to him entirely. He has this _look_ in his face that nearly kills her—like he never saw anything half as lovely, like he means to worship her to the end of their days.

 

When he finally grabs her hips, bringing her flush against his naked body, she’s ready to give him everything he asks for; her body, her soul, her _life_. He brings them to the water, its warmth and wetness mixing with her own. She opens her legs for him, keeping his gaze as he breaches her maidenhead. The discomfort doesn’t last long; it’s eased away by his gentleness and her own arousal, and he starts to move in and out of her, slowly.

 

His rhythm is deliberate, and she clutches his back, her nails digging into his skin; she worries for a second she might be hurting him, but she can’t help it—the fullness she feels turns her into a whimpering mess. If he minds the scratching he doesn’t show it; he’s solely focused on _her_ , on squeezing her breasts and grasping her thighs around him as he fucks her, his tempo picking up slightly with each thrust of his hips.

 

She feels hot all over again, and she’s sure she must look a mess right now, her hair plastering around her neck with her sweat and the steam of the pool. He licks a line up the hollow of her throat, catching the salty droplets there, and it’s too much, too _good_ —it makes her clench around him. They both moan at her tightening, the snug fit of her cunt around his cock.

 

“I’m so close,” she cries out.

 

“Me too,” he grunts, slamming into her erratically. “Please, let go, Alayne. Let me make you cum.”

 

He’s so handsome, even as he begs, and so she _does_. She screams as she peaks, and he slips out right after, spilling his seed in the water. Afterwards, when they’re both still panting, and sinking further down the pool, she lowers her head, letting it wash her completely. When she rises, the dye in her hair is gone.


	3. The Nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the damn firelight. And then it isn't.

The little aftershocks running through both their bodies will have him ready to go again if he doesn't slip out of her soon, but _damn_ him, her cunt feels as glorious as he'd imagined—even more so. That’s why Jon waits a little bit longer, enjoying this intimacy, hugging her close as they begin to drift on the hot water.

 

He grows drowsy and slowly tries to make his limbs get them to the edge, lest they fall asleep like this and drown. _Oh, but what a way to go_. It's a testament to how very sated he is, that he's no energy to laugh at his own little joke.

 

Alayne pushes him back slightly, just enough to submerge under the water; he watches his reflection for a moment before closing his eyes, and she comes out of the water with a soft gasp. The sound makes him grow half-hard; she notices and squirms against him, and Jon has to groan because truly, _this girl might very well be the death of me._

 

"Again?" She asks, breathless; his laughter escapes before he can even answer.

 

"I need to rest a little," at last, he finds the strength to move them to the edges of the pool, "but after that, yes, _again_."

 

Her laugh is lovely—soothing and familiar and Jon opens his eyes then, tilts his head to drop a kiss to her bare shoulder. Alayne hugs him closer and belatedly he realizes that she's shaking, and not from the cold, he's certain, it can barely be felt inside the hot water. He thinks to ask but a flash of color catches his attention and—there, _again_. Jon chuckles, disbelieving.

 

"What?" She asks, a curious smile gracing her lips.

 

"It's funny,” he offers.

 

"What is?"

 

He pulls back enough to give her a lazy smile; he feels so damn happy in that moment.

 

"Your hair always looks a shade of red in the firelight," either bright or dark, it is always red when the light hit it just so, like now. He fingers a strand of it, moves it from where it’s clinging to her neck. "Like the weirwood's leaves." Alayne remains silent. "The Free Folk—well, wildlings to you, right? They call your hair 'kissed by fire', say it’s lucky."

 

Somehow, it feels like he just can't stop talking; but this girl, this _beautiful_ girl had given him what's arguably her most precious possession, had let herself be ruined in the eyes of the gods and men by him—it is the least he can do, to give her what she wants.

 

He continues, "I once had a sister with hair as bright as yours. She was beautiful and sweet, _innocent_ , with a head full of dreams and a heart full of songs," his chest hurts, too much too soon, and Jon keeps stroking her hair.

 

Alayne's response is a tremulous whisper. "Sister…?"

 

He grabs the back of her head and brings her closer, places his lips to her temples. " _Sansa_ —her name was Sansa Stark, and the South took her from me," he can barely recognize his own voice. "I had brothers too, with a darker shade of red hair—Robb, Bran and Rickon Stark. And Arya, the only one that looked like me, my little sister. They were all taken from me. The South took them, took Father. It took everything."

 

_Will it take you as well?_

 

That's when he notices her silence, how badly she’s shaking. Alayne pushes him away, pale and trembling, and scrambles out of the pool, grabbing her cloak to wrap it around her shoulders. She looks scared, confused, but mostly looks at him _that_ way again, as if she's seeing a ghost, as if she can't _believe_ it—doesn't want to believe.

 

Jon follows, feeling confused as well; he doesn’t bother reaching for his clothes, thinks it’s not necessary after what they've just done. When she looks away from him, pulling her cloak tighter around her, he means to call her name—but stops. He _stops_ ; the light of the fire no longer shines on her hair, not from her position; suddenly it feels like an icy hand is clenching his guts from the inside.

 

 _Red hair, blue eyes, fair skin_ , he wonders if he should try for denial, if his mind would allow him that brief sanctuary. But then Ghost appears, silent as his namesake, and moves slowly towards—

 

" _Sansa_."

 

His loyal companion bumps his nose against her cheek, nuzzling, recognizing. It all makes sense now, his avoidance—Ghost had _known_ , the whole time. _It was I, the one avoiding_. Sansa falls to her knees then, whispering the direwolf's name, and Ghost follows, laying down so she can hug him properly. His sister is crying—his sister… _Gods be damned._ He shudders.

 

"Jon…"

 

She calls his name then—and he does, he _does_ like to hear his name stumbling past her lovely lips at last.

 

Jon recoils as if struck.

 

_Gods be damned, I fucked my sister._

***

 

She’d thought she would never see her family again—they were all dead, as far as she knew. Even Jon. She had still clung to hope, stupidly, that he would somehow be there, waiting for her at Castle Black, ready to take her in his arms. They may never had been close, but he was still her brother, even by half. Of course, her prayers would be answered like _this_ —the gods are cruel, she can attest to that. She’d prayed for his life, for family, for _home_.

 

Perhaps it is her fault; the gods had sent him her way, she is the one who decided to give him her maidenhead. Her heart sinks in her chest. _I gave myself to him—to my_ brother _. What would mother and father think?_ She starts to weep, burying her face in Ghost’s fur. Jon tries to comfort her with a hand to her shoulder, but she flinches away from his touch.

 

“ _Don’t,_ ” she bites back through her tears.

 

He steps back, swallowing whatever words he had prepared to speak. _It’s better that way_ , she thinks, _he was never good with words_. She tries not to think of his hurt expression, how it pulls at her heartstrings. It is just like the one he wore when they were children, whenever her lady mother would disregard him, or anyone reminded him of his bastardy.

 

Her tears start to anger her—she doesn’t want to be sad, doesn’t want to care about anyone’s stupid _feelings_ anymore—but most of all she wants to get mad, mad at _him_. He could have told her who he was from the start, could’ve prevented this whole situation, but he lied and— _no_. She falters. _I lied first, didn’t I? I pretended to be Alayne this whole time. Why didn’t I tell him my true name before giving myself to him? Why couldn’t I wait? They were all right about me. I’m a stupid girl indeed._

 

She dresses and lays by her furs, holding Ghost close to her as she tries to sleep. He reminds her of Lady, and it brings her as much sorrow as comfort. She must have laid there for hours, waiting for sleep to take her; it’s hard to tell within the darkness of the cave.

 

Jon had the sense not to try to lay next to her, gathering his furs in another corner. She’s glad for the space. When her eyes starts burning and her mind can no longer torture her, her body finally surrenders and falls into a deep slumber.

 

***

 

_Sansa rushed through the halls of Winterfell, giggling as she went. She could hear her siblings close by, their hurried steps and muffled laughter. They were playing catch, and it was her turn to try to catch them._

_She saw a hint of Robb’s curls as he dashed through a hallway to her left, and gave chase. He stepped inside a room, closing the door afterwards. Sansa walked inside right after, eager to surprise him, but he wasn’t there. The room was empty; there were no places for him to hide. She thought it strange, but decided to chase the sounds of Arya and Bran’s laughter instead. She was sure they had walked into the kitchens, but when she got there, it was empty; not even the cooks were around. She started to panic, realizing she hadn’t seen a single soul inside the castle so far. She heard little Rickon’s giggle then, and desperately reached for him, but once again the sounds of his little feet led her to an empty chamber._

_She paced all over the castle, looking for them in every room, but finding nothing but dust and despair. She called for mother and father, tears sliding down her cheeks, but they did not hear, nor could they be found at their chambers, their solar, or the great hall._

_At last, as she reached the doors to the courtyard, she saw him._

_“Jon!” she called out desperately._

_He had his back to her as he stood under the falling snow. Relief flooded her as she ran to him, calling out his name again. When she finally reached him, grabbing his shoulder and turning him around to face her, she gasped—his eyes were bleak and unseeing, and as he opened his mouth, blood started pouring out. She stared, paralyzed, as he collapsed, falling on his back over the heavy layers of snow. She noticed, in horror, he had blood seeping through his clothes as well, as if a dozen invisible knives had stabbed him in the chest._

 

Sansa wakes up screaming.


	4. The Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They try to forget, to cope; they fail. Still, there's always a silver lining in everything.

_Nightmares_ , he decides after that first night in the cave, her screams ringing in his ears. Not night terrors, otherwise she would not be waking up abruptly, would not remember anything the morning after, would trash and scream and not be aware of it come morning.

 

She does scream; sits up in shock, eyes scanning her surroundings until they land on him, sitting across from her as far as he can manage it while still keeping close to the fire. He cannot know for sure, what she sees when closing her eyes, but Jon thinks her nightmares might be about him, in some capacity at least. It's the way she looks at him the morning after, apprehensive and scared, yet reluctant to say anything. He won't ask—Sansa's made it plenty clear she doesn't want him near her anymore, driving him away as she has, and considering...well, _everything,_ he can't blame her.

 

 _My sister_ , the words are like daggers to his guts, _I’ve lain with my sister. With Sansa. I've ruined her._ A dreaded, never-ending mantra. The words wouldn’t let him rest. They make him want to apologize, to fix this, somehow. Jon yearns to say it, _let me fix this_ , but he knows it’s not something that can be fixed.

 

He held tight to whatever shreds of his honor he could find after deserting the Watch. He had not killed in raids, had tried to prevent it when it involved the defenseless. He'd taken comfort from that, at the very least, he'd not forsaken everything Eddard Stark had taught him completely. Then he goes and defiles his treasured daughter. The Gods should've struck him down the day he first turned his back on his oaths.

 

"You have to eat."

 

These are the first words he says to her in days, but while he can take the silence, Jon won't let her go hungry just because she'd rather not be with him. She ignores him.

 

"I don't care if you don't talk to me, Sansa. Ignore me to your heart's content, I'll even stay out of your sight if that's what you want, but you have to eat."

 

That being said, he pushes the food she'd refused into her hands and stands up, turning his back on her.

 

"Where are you going?"

 

The first words she says to him, too, in days; is it foolish of him, to feel hope? To think that maybe things will start getting better, that she won't despise him any longer? _Yes, yes it is_ , _you thrice-damned fool._

 

He keeps his back to her, won't let her see how much her actions hurt him, won't let he know how much he loathes himself for what happened. _I should've told her the truth when she asked it of me_ , Jon rages, _because everything would've been_ so _much_ easier _that way_.

 

Maybe they would've embraced, shared laughter and tears and wishes for _—_ what, exactly? Jon has never planned to venture south of the Wall, not for more than the absolutely necessary.

 

"Jon…?"

 

Everyone had been right about him in the end; a lowly bastard born of lust, he's no different, yearning for something he shouldn't dare to want. He will burn in all existing hells for taking pleasure in the way his name falls from her lips, he's sure.

 

"Hunting," he says, walking away. "Keep Ghost with you."

 

***

 

They stick to this routine. Sansa ignores him until he begins venturing too far, and then questions his intentions of leaving. _Leaving her_ , he thinks, confused and frustrated. Sansa seems to both want him gone, but not entirely out of her sight. Wants him to shut up when he berates her, but it's all too eager to berate _him_ when he takes too long searching for food.

 

It's the avoiding of uttering his name that sears him mercilessly, the sudden chasm that's opened between them that even as strangers they didn't have. It hurts. It makes him angry, so _fucking_ angry. So, on the morning after of the one of her rare nightmare-free nights, he goes out in search of food without letting her know.

 

He takes his sweet time; he may or may not do it out of spite, reasons it's so he can calm down. So _Sansa_ can calm down too, and then they could sit and talk and plan their next move. He doesn't realize how long he's been away until he returns to an agitated Ghost and a sobbing sister.

 

***

 

She doesn’t mean to react the way she does. It’s stupid, really. Her nightmares had been mild the previous night: just her, walking the empty halls of Winterfell, in eerie silence. Nothing to scream about. Yet she feels so _lonely_ , wants him to hold him close every time she wakes from one of her dreams, but berates herself for it. She couldn’t ask that of him. Not after what they did. So instead of searching for comfort, she shuts herself off. It’s better that way, to keep a distance, to pretend nothing happened between them. It’s _safer_.

 

Sansa knows when she wakes and doesn’t find Jon that he must have gone hunting, but the fact that he didn’t think to warn her like he usually did left a queasy feeling in her stomach. Had he decided to leave her? _No, that’s not Jon_ , she tells herself. _Jon is good, honorable, he wouldn’t abandon me here._

She waits for him. Time passes torturously slow, as she has nothing to occupy herself with. She grows more restless every day, not knowing what to do, how to be useful. Jon provides them with everything they need: food, clean water, firewood. She wonders if he regrets stealing her now; certainly, he must, for her being a burden, if not for the other reason she refuses to think about.

 

Ghost stays glued to her side, as if sensing her inner turmoil. Sansa is glad for his company, at least, or she might have gone mad by now. She pets the direwolf, talks to him as if he could respond, but the longer it takes Jon to return the more desperate she feels. Her mind starts spinning images of what could be keeping him for so long—of Jon being felled by some great beast, or attacked by a group of wildlings. Tears slip down her face before she can stop them.

 

Hours pass, and her guilt gets the best of her— _with the way I’ve been treating him, he must believe I hate him_ , she thinks, scolding herself. _He could be dead now, unaware that I could never hate him at all. Unaware that he is the most precious thing I have left_. Ghost licks at her tears, and Sansa holds him closer as her tears turn to sobs.

 

Her heart is still wrenching inside her chest when Jon finally returns. Sansa runs to the cave opening at the first sight of him, throwing herself in his arms. She cries tears of relief when he holds her, arms wrapping tightly around her waist.

 

“Where have you been?” she asks tearfully, refusing to let him go.

 

“I—I’m sorry,” he stutters, “I didn’t think…”

 

Sansa backs away so she can look at him. Jon looks entirely shocked.

 

“You didn’t think I would care that you were gone?” he avoids her gaze, looking to his feet, and that’s confirmation enough. Sansa’s chest feels like it’s caving in on itself. She grabs his face, making him look up at her.

 

“Jon. I care about you. More than _anything_.”

 

He looks into her eyes, still skeptic. _Of course, he wouldn’t believe me_ , she thinks, sadly. It hurts, but she focuses on him, on making him believe her, on fixing this one small wound between them, so they could move forward and work on the next.

 

“You’re all I have left,” she says, staring deeply into his eyes, “I can’t lose you too.”

 

Jon inhales softly and nods, his gaze showing more trust. She sighs, relieved, her thumbs now caressing the sides of his face. _Everything’s going to be fine_ , she tells herself, but then his eyes look down at her lips, and hers do the same to his, and her heart is back to torturing her, beating at a violent rhythm.

 

Sansa can’t stop herself from tilting her head forward, just an inch, and as Jon does the same, their lips finally meet again.

 

It’s not like the kisses they’d shared before, hurried and eager as they were to devour each other; no, this one is slow, reassuring, but still passionate in its own way. It amazes her, how much she can feel from just the press of his lips, how it warms her from head to toe, leaving her contended and hungry at once. She sucks on his bottom lip lightly, enjoying its delicious fullness, and when he slides his tongue inside her mouth, both hum in satisfaction at the touch.

 

Her mind is pulled from her haze when he brings his hands up to start undressing her. Sansa pulls away, only now realizing how close they had been, bodies flushed against each other. She puts her hands on his chest, putting some distance between them. Jon looks up at her like a kicked puppy, and it takes all her strength to keep herself from giving in to the desire to bring him close again, to crash her mouth against his and let him have his way with her.

 

“We can’t,” she states, breathlessly.

 

***

 

 _Yes, we can_ , Jon rubs his chest, if only to make the pain go away, but it’s not a physical pain _. You just don't want to._

 

It sure as all hells hurts worse than anything he's experienced, and he can't quite tell why. Except, _yes_ , he _can_ ; Sansa, still breathless, looks as pained as he feels. Even if briefly, the emotion is there for him to see, before she turns to walk back to the pit where he has kept the fire.

 

His lips tingle and he wishes more than anything to have her back in his arms, kiss her soft lips—Gods be damned, it was entirely too easy to forget all the reasons why he should not be thinking like this.

 

It feels like he only needed her to give him a hint, just a glimmer of hope, and his resolve would crumble. As if all his self-loathing would disappear if what they did suddenly ceased to bother her—but that's exactly how it is, isn't it?

 

Sansa kissed him, long and sweet and true, and then lamented the end of it. Such a small thing; that kiss amounts to nearly nothing compared to all they've done—but it is enough to render his protests useless. He wants his sister; he wants _Sansa_. Shaking his head, he walks the distance to the fire, tentatively sitting close to her, wanting to test just how truthful her words are.

 

She smiles at him, a light pull of her lips, wobbly; they keep Ghost as a buffer between them. She picks a wooden stick and pokes the fire, trying to make it flare, most likely, and he clenches his jaw to stop the reprimand that is at the tip of his tongue. They ought not to be wasting firewood, scarce as it is this side of the Wall. Instead, Jon stays quiet and begins skinning the hare he’d found today so he could roast it.

 

"Jon?"

 

"Yeah."

 

"I..." she hesitates, enough to make him turn and focus on her again, "I'd like to ask you… a favor."

 

He blinks, curious, but nods anyway. "Alright."

 

"I want you to teach me everything you know, how to survive here."

 

She looks so determined saying it, that it makes Jon wonder at her motives. He remembers the girl who'd trekked through frozen lakes and knee-high snowy fields and cold woods with little complaint after the first night. It clashes furiously with the girl of his childhood, who seldom stepped outside for fear of dirtying her pretty gowns. He smiles hesitantly back at her.

 

"Planning on escaping, now?"

 

The joke is mostly his way of stalling for an answer, but her smile widens even as she shakes her head in denial. She says nothing for a while, lets her hands stroke through Ghost's furry neck in an absentminded fashion.

 

"I don't want to be a burden to you anymore."

 

"Sansa, you're not—" She's quick to cut him off.

 

"Yes, I _am_." she pauses, pins him with a resolute glare. "So far you've provided everything for us, and I've done nothing but sit here and—"

 

"That's not true," her disbelieving expression makes him reconsider his words. "It's my duty to protect you," he clarifies.

 

She reaches over and grabs his hand tightly, pulling it close to her; he squeezes back mostly on instinct. When was the last time they had touched, barring this morning? Days? It feels like weeks, though that can’t be right.

 

"I feel like a burden to you," says Sansa, beseeching, "I want to help. I hate feeling useless, Jon, so please, just let me _help_ you."

 

Ghost makes a little noise of protest, as they have their linked hands resting atop his back. Jon looks at his direwolf, wonders where Lady is. Suddenly it feels incredibly insensitive of him not to have asked, but there's a part of him that knows the answer to that question, almost as if he'd felt it happen.

 

"This is not a recent thing, is it? About feeling like…a _burden_?" Jon asks, unsettled by the word.

 

Sansa averts her gaze to the fire, shakes her head in answer. It should not surprise him, really, that he can commiserate with her. Of course, Jon's good at hunting now; he's been taught survival skills while still in Winterfell, same as Robb and Theon—his heart lurches painfully—same as Bran and Rickon would have too, had they been a little older. Still, the free folk were on a level of their own in that regard; Jon often felt useless when going hunting with Ygritte, frustrated at how little he could catch beyond the wall, how hard it seemed compared to what he knew.

 

That's the difference, he'd learned, between those who learn a skill just in case and those who acquire them out of necessity. He had admired that in the free folk. Then there were those skills and traits he most certainly did not admire, that made him intervene in their raids and, sometimes, even sabotage them before innocent people could be hurt—actions that, more than once, might have cost him his life, had it not been for Ygritte.

 

Jon pulls her hand up to his lips, slowly, giving her time to stop him if she wanted to—she doesn't. Her hand twitches, but she doesn't stop him from placing a kiss on the back of it, nor does she break the contact right away. _Alright, then_.

 

"What would you like to learn first?"

 

It's obvious by her reaction that she's thrown; had likely expected him to protest further. It takes her a few moments to answer, but when she does, it’s with a proud glint in her eyes.

 

"Well, anything you think would be better to start. I… I’m not very strong, so perhaps we should leave hunting for a later time," she's smiling, hasn't let go of his hand yet and, really, it's all Jon can do not to lean in for another kiss.

 

"We need to build your strength and resistance, before I can teach you to hunt," he says, agreeing. "That'll take time. You can start helping by finding firewood to keep us warm. How does that sound?"

 

 "Alright."

 

He turns serious, then. "If you ever go out alone, Sansa, promise me you'll take Ghost with you. Always."

 

"I promise," her smile widens, and she finally decides to take her hand back, just to pet his direwolf. Jon still feels the loss of contact.

 

"Alright, then. After we eat," he motions at the skinned hare, notes the way she pales slightly at the sight, "we'll go out and I'll show you which plants you should avoid at all costs. And everything else, we'll take it from there."

 

She gifts him another smile, this one reaching all the way to her eyes, and his heart flutters.

 

"Thank you, Jon."


	5. The Weaving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which another conversation is had, and Sansa makes use of her Tully blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let it be noted that a lot of research went into this chapter. the names of the plants are not made up, they exist and are dangerous in various degrees. we worked a lot in this one :'D

Sansa followed Jon through the snow as they gathered fallen branches for the fire. Every now and then he would stop, pointing at some animal’s track or some new plant she should avoid. She listened carefully, doing her best to take it all in.

 

“See that one, with the single blue berry in the middle?” He pointed towards a plant with hairy edges. “That’s queen’s cup.”

 

“Is it dangerous?”

 

“Yes. The berry can be toxic, but it’s not very palatable in any case.”

 

“What about that one?” She pointed to a plant with round white berries growing next to it.

 

“That’s snowberry. It’s mildly poisonous; can cause dizziness or vomiting on humans. Birds can eat it just fine, though.”

 

“It’s so pretty. I wish I could eat it.”

 

He laughed. “Too bad you’re not a bird.”

 

“They used to call me _little bird_ in King’s Landing,” she recalled. When memories of that place started to smother her, she turned around to point at a cluster of shiny red berries that sprouted from elongated stems, just opposite where the snowberries stood. “What about these?” Sansa reached out, distractedly. Jon stopped her hand with his own.

 

“Those are snake berries. They’re extremely dangerous—enough stop a man’s heart. They grow white as they mature, but you can tell them apart from the little black dot on each one, see?” She nodded. “The freefolk call it doll’s eyes.” 

 

“You learned all this from the free folk?”

 

“Jory taught me a little; back when we used to go hunting in the Wolfswood, but he didn’t know much about life this far north…I supposed the free folk did teach me most of it, yes.”

 

“Do you miss them?” She asks, bursting with curiosity. She wants to know everything about him, about his life since they separated—how he went from a boy to a man she barely recognized. He was so different now, she pondered, looking at his broad chest and his thick, dark beard; but sometimes a glimpse of the Jon she knew would shine through. _Had I seen it before, we wouldn’t have—_

 

“I miss a few people. I didn’t have many friends amongst them, to be honest. Most despised me for being a crow.”

 

“Then why did you leave the Night’s Watch?”

 

 “It’s complicated.” He grimaced. “I didn’t have many friends there, either. Plenty of enemies, though. Would’ve killed me if they had the chance.” Sansa remembered the contempt with which Lord Commander Thorne spoke about him. It made her shiver.

 

She struggled to show her interest—she had spent so long ignoring him, first as children, and then recently at the cave, that she feared he would think her insincere. 

 

“Well, you could…talk to me about it. If you want to, of course.” She looked up at him, hopeful. He smiled at her, and a tingly feeling swept by Sansa’s stomach.

 

“What do you want to know?” He asks, amused.

 

“Everything,” she replied.

 

“Alright.” Jon nods. “I’ll tell you everything tonight… _if_ you can focus on the task at hand now.”

 

“Is that a challenge? Don’t think I can handle gathering firewood, do you?” She asks, raising her eyebrows.

 

He looks bewildered for a moment, before noticing her mock outrage for what it is and smiling again. “I wouldn’t bet against you, Sansa.”

 

“Good. I’m a lot stronger than I look, you know.”

 

Jon looked her up and down appreciatively, and Sansa felt her cheeks warm. “Excellent. Then you can carry this,” he says, laying twice as many broken branches on her arms.

 

He looks at her carefully, and she knows he’s expecting her to complain any time now, but she refuses to buckle under the weight. She keeps walking as if nothing is amiss, asking after one plant or another. They manage to find some edible berries and roots, and Jon looks impressed by the time they start making their way back to the cave.

 

Still, he prods her to give him most of the weight back. She refuses.

 

“Sansa, don’t be stubborn. I can see you’re struggling. It’s heavy.”

 

“I’m not,” she insists. “It’s perfectly fine.”

 

“ _Sansa_ ,” he cautions.

 

“ _Jon_ ,” she replies with the same tone. “I can handle it. I’m not a child.”

 

He looks at her, exasperated. “I _know_ you’re not a child! We—” She freezes, sees it in his eyes he is about to mention _that_ night, but then he fumbles—“I don’t see you as a child,” he says, finally.

 

Sansa knew it already; it was obvious, from what they had done and from the way he still looks at her sometimes, like he still _wants_ her, despite knowing she’s his sister. She was a woman grown— _not even a maiden anymore_ , she wanted to sneer, but thought better of it at the last second. They shouldn’t talk of such things.

 

“Then stop treating me like one! I want you to be my _partner_ , not my keeper!” He looked at her, wide-eyed, and she blushed when she realized how her words sounded. She rushed to amend, “I don’t mean it like—”

 

“I know what you meant.” He looks at her wistfully. “I’m sorry.” 

 

They get to the cave in silence, and then he teaches her how to build and tend to a fire.

 

***

 

 _It's the little things_ , he suddenly realizes.

 

Sometimes, Sansa would drop bits of information, things from a time long past, passing comments that make him pause, make him ball up his hands or want to hunt those people down. Whichever would help him sate his need to protect her, to deliver revenge on those who wronged her.

 

It's the little things that make his heart beat faster now, make him want to pull her into his arms and assure her that everything would be alright.

 

Then there's moments like today, when she blindsides him completely.

 

Jon has no context about that moniker she mentioned, but he doesn't need it, does he? The way her face had closed off for a split second—that had been enough to understand it wasn’t anything pleasant.

 

"Jon!"

 

The snap of her fingers breaks his train of thought; Jon blinks to find Sansa staring at him with curiosity, an amused smile lurking at the corners of her lips.

 

"Yeah?"

 

She smiles fully then. "Where did you go?"

 

He blinks again. "Go?"

 

Sansa rolls her eyes, but settles closer to him by the fire. She keeps a stick close by in case she has to tend to it, then she turns to look at him, expectantly, and he knows there's something he's missing. It takes him a while to catch up, and he feels like a fool for forgetting.

 

"Oh, right," he smiles sheepishly. "Er… where do I start?"

 

"The beginning would be nice."

 

 _She's teasing me_ , he realizes. Jon wonders if she's aware of what her actions might unravel now, if that's what she wants. What happened earlier today was proof enough that she had not forgotten what happened between them. Not any more than he had.

 

"Alright," he pauses, if only to organize his thoughts. "The journey to the Wall must've been the happiest I've been since leaving Winterfell, because everything went straight to hell soon as I got there."

 

"Was that when uncle Benjen disappeared?"

 

Jon blinks curiously at her, until he surmises that Thorne must've told her some during her stay at Castle Black.

 

"Yes," he says, "things started going downhill after he went missing. Thorne was a nightmare, I felt harassed, and then, on the night I swore my oaths, Ghost appears with a man's hand in his snout. A clean cut, from the looks of it; it made Lord Commander Mormont worry enough for him to arrange a large-scaled ranging."

 

"The hand didn't belong to Uncle Benjen, did it?" she asks, blue eyes blown wide.

 

He smiles reassuringly at her, or as much as he can considering the topic of conversation. "No. No, and to this day, I don't know what became of him." He can still remember that day clearly; what came after, the rush to assemble and leave to investigate beyond the Wall. "No, we never knew whose hand it was. Probably a wildling’s or some other brother of the Night’s Watch."

 

Sansa scoots closer. "What happened then? In that ranging. Was it then when you decided to desert the Night's Watch?"

 

"Yeah, it was then."

 

Something must have flashed across his face for Sansa to grab his hand suddenly, bringing it to her lap.

 

"You know, other than Uncle Benjen, I'd never met another brother of the Night's Watch."

 

"Meeting the ones at Castle Black must have crushed your expectations." There is humor in his voice, but he can't help the dark thoughts lurking in the back of his head. _Just like it crushed mine_.

 

She seems to know what he's thinking. "Yes, it was disappointing, but," she licks her lips, "I meant, before. When I—when I was in King's Landing, I saw one of them. And I remember thinking of you."

 

 "Oh?"

 

He never expected her to think of him. They didn't have a close relationship; Sansa was never cruel or particularly dismissive, but having so very little in common, they didn't share that many memories. He hadn't expected her to truly forget him either, but only to think of him as much as he thought of her back then—which hadn't been much, to tell the truth.

 

"I felt bad that you had to live among that kind of men. I know you thought just as I did, that the Night's Watch was an honorable calling; that its brothers were all men like uncle Benjen…"

 

"It was a rude awakening," he agrees, and then they fall into silence.

 

It doesn't last; Sansa is quick to keep the conversation going. "So, what made you desert in the end?"

 

Jon frowns as he recall that night. "There was this man, Craster—a wildling. Lord Commander Mormont made a deal with him, said it was necessary, that the Night's Watch needed this alliance to have a safe haven beyond the Wall, he said. And had that been all, I would've been fine with it."

 

"But it wasn't?"

 

"This man might not have ventured South to raid and kill—he didn't need it, with the deal he had—" And there it is, that old rage bubbling inside. "—this man bedded his own daughters, put babes in their wombs and then got rid of those who were born boys."

 

"How…?"

 

"He killed them. Took off into the night with them, killed them, and left them to rot in the forest floor. I know it; I followed him one night when we stayed at his keep."

 

"But, that's—that's…"

 

Sansa has no words, just as he did back then, and Jon had witnessed that man act; he was still left speechless. The horror in her face is enough, though, there's no real need to vocalize it. He lets the conversation break for the time being, lets her come to terms with what she's heard; in the meantime, Jon tries to decide whether it'd be too tactless to start skinning their supper now.

 

"Was that what pushed you to forsake your oaths?”

 

Jon closes his eyes and there's a flash of red in the back of his mind, brighter than Sansa's hair, but less soft, less cared for. _Kissed by fire_.

 

There's a glimpse of ice blue and along it comes the feeling of elation and dread. _Ygritte_. To this day, Jon is not truly sure if he'd ever loved her; he thought he did, with all the enthusiasm of a boy in the cusp of becoming a man. But he cannot, still, reconcile the thought of her lifestyle—cannot accept the need for raiding.

 

He's grateful of all he'd learned with her, with her people. But some things are just not right.

 

 _“You've a good heart, Jon Snow, but one day it might get us killed_.”

 

One day it did; his good heart got _her_ killed.

 

"Jon?"

 

He shakes his head, turns to give her a sheepish smile again. "I'm sorry."

 

"It's fine, but was that it?" Sansa proved him with the stick she picks up from the ground. "What made you leave it all behind?"

 

"That certainly started it, but no. No, it was something else."

 

 _Someone_ else.

 

How to explain that? Ygritte? A time that felt like an eternity and nothing at all, at the same time? It had only been a few months, in truth.

 

"There was a girl. Her name was Ygritte."

 

Better to get on with it; he's never been good at delaying, sees no point in doing it now.

 

"Lord Commander Mormont sent me to infiltrate the wildlings—gather information about their numbers and intentions, how much Mance Rayder had managed to unify them. Things like that." Things that he'd been expecting, in a way. "I couldn't forget what I'd seen Craster do, couldn't forget the Night's Watch made dealings with that man, but I managed—just reasoning that, at the very least, the Watch protected the realm the best they could from threats like those."

 

It hadn't been an easy thought to swallow, but Jon did it, if only because he tried to focus on the bigger picture. Most likely, Thorne had told Sansa of his attempt at escaping, at running off to fight beside Robb in his quest to avenge Father; he won't mention it, only because he failed to succeed. That mission had been his saving grace at first, one which he used to ignore the little voices in his head whispering how he was abandoning his family.

 

Even when things turned sour, frighteningly fast at that, Jon had clung to it.

 

"I remember," he continues, "not much longer after I separated from the ranging party, I came across a group of wildlings. Ygritte was one of them. I captured her first, then she captured _me_ and took me to her people. To the King-beyond-the-Wall."

 

Recounting his time among the free folk makes him ache. Fiercely. Most of is a blur, anyhow. Remembers his talk with Mance Rayder, how he'd twisted a few facts to make his cover believable. Remembers that first night under the furs with Ygritte and the ones that followed. The sense of camaraderie that sometimes would sweep over him, either while he'd been out hunting with Ygritte and a few others, or sitting by the fire with Tormund listening to his japes. Jon wonders what became of him; he'd last seen him after… after her body had been burned in the woods.

 

Mostly, he recalls his shock at watching the young and the old struggle with the cold, the lack of food, the lack of shelter. He understands that the point of the raids are to provide for the people who struggle—food and fur and steel to defend themselves. Jon tells Sansa all of this. She picks up on the underlying message easily enough.

 

"…we're lucky to be born on the other side of the Wall."

 

He nods. "I… stopped seeing them as savages. They are people, just… people. Some are bad, yeah, but then," he shrugs, "south of the Wall they can be just as bad. _Worse_ , even."

 

Sansa would know; she used to live among _those_ monsters.

 

"I knew my mission would take some time to complete, but… by the time I remembered what I was supposed to do…"

 

"You had decided to desert the Watch?"

 

"I never thought to go _back_ , actually. I think I deserted long before realizing it."

 

Jon thinks that would be enough, at least for tonight, but Sansa blindsides him again.

 

"Did you love her?"

 

***

 

She can see the question throws him off by the way he stares at her, mouth agape. His eyes look so _lost_ , Sansa wishes she could take it back.

 

“I’m sorry,” she hurries, “it’s no—”

 

“—It’s complicated. She was not… _easy_ to be with, I suppose.”

 

 _Am I easy to be with?_ She wonders, briefly.

 

He goes on, “At first I only laid with her because if I didn’t, they would doubt I was really one of them. It could get me killed.”

 

Sansa feels a bit outraged at that, but she keeps it to herself.

 

He goes on, “I felt trapped at first, but as time went by she grew on me. As brash as she was, there were things I started noticing about her. Like how she used to sing around the fire. I liked that.” He looks at her strangely for a moment, as if he just had some sort of revelation, “She was kissed by fire, too. Like you,” he frowns.

 

She doesn’t know what to make of that, but lucky for her, he continues.

 

“To answer your question, I suppose I did love her, but…I know it wouldn’t have lasted between us. Our ways were too different.”

 

She feels sad for him, doesn’t know what to say, so she just squeezes his hand.

 

“I’m sorry,” she offers at last, trying to comfort him.

 

He smiles kindly at her. “Some things just aren’t meant to be,” he replies. “Now, would you like to learn how to clean and roast a rabbit?”

 

 _Sounds revolting,_ she thinks, but nods anyway.

 

***

 

They settle into a routine.

 

Jon wakes her up in the morning so they can break their fast with the berries she’d gathered the day before. Her nightmares had gotten better, to the point where she doesn’t wake up screaming as often, but she’s still haunted by dreams of her home, of her footsteps echoing against the stone walls of Winterfell.

 

Still, she’s been sleeping better, and Jon has settled his furs closer to hers—they don’t sleep huddled together, as they used to _before_. Yet sometimes, in one of her bad nights, she would open her eyes and find his hand in the dark, scoot a little closer to his side, and his breathing would lull her back to sleep.

 

She would gather berries and wood with Ghost by her side, while Jon hunted. Some days she would go with him, but hunting hadn’t proved to be a skill she could easily pick up, and she would rather not be in his way. Nonetheless, she felt better—useful, at last. She would even help him with skinning their game, which she detested.

 

Cooking proved to be easier than she thought—if you could call roasting small animals over the fire _cooking_ , that is. Sansa definitely missed the finer products of cuisine; nothing too fancy, just a loaf of bread would make her happy, perhaps some cheese and wine to go with it, though she wasn’t much of a drinker. She knew there was no way to make those things here, though, so she pushed that hunger aside. Their diet consisted of roasted meat and whatever plants she could gather. It wasn’t much, but it kept them fed, and for that she was thankful.

 

They couldn’t drink the water from the hot pools inside the cave, so they had to walk to a river nearby and gather a few gallons every day—they couldn’t carry much with them.

 

That day, when Jon is filling his waterskin next to her, Sansa spots something moving in the water.

 

“Is that…” it finally clicks for her, “Jon, there’s fish.” She taps his shoulder excitedly. “Do you think we could make a net, or a fishing rod?”

 

“We don’t have any rope,” he says, dejectedly.

 

“Well, don’t the free folk make their own? We could do it.”

 

“I suppose… I think they made it from dead tree bark.” he muses. “There’s an old oak nearby we could use.”

 

“Great. Let’s go, then.” She grinned, grabbing his hand.

 

“Not so fast, my lady,” he laughed. “We still need our water supply, remember?”

 

She blinks, slightly embarrassed. “Right. I know that.”

 

They get to refilling their waterskins before leaving the riverside.

 

***

 

It takes her days, after they strip off long sections from the old oak tree’s inner bark, to twist and twine each fiber into strings, and then tie those cords together into a net, but she finally succeeds. Her fingers bleed from the effort, but she’s never felt more accomplished.

 

Jon fretted over the state of her hands, asked her to stop and rest more times than she could count over the past days, but Sansa insisted on continuing. She was eager to finish, to use her new contraption and bring them a supper that wasn’t roasted meat for a change. Her hands could recover once she’d tasted some broiled salmon.

 

“It’s done!” She announces proudly.

 

Jon comes closer to inspect her work.

 

“Looks sturdy enough,” he says, impressed. “I suppose you’ll want to try it today?”

 

“Yes,” she says, eagerly, “I _really_ do.”

 

He chuckles. “No roasted hare today, then?”

 

“I’ve had enough hare and rabbit for a _year_.”

 

“Alright. Can’t say I’m not tired of it too.” He helps her rise as she gathers the net. They walk towards the cave entrance.

 

“I hope you know how to clean a fish, Jon, because I certainly don’t.”

 

He laughs again, the sound warming her heart. “I’m sure I’ll manage it, Sansa. Are you so certain you’ll catch any fish on your first try?”

 

“Of course! I’m half Tully, don’t you know? It’s in my blood.”

 

***

 

Sansa huffs in frustration. She’s been throwing the net into the river for what feels like hours now, with nothing to show for it.

 

“Well, seems like your Tully blood is somewhat lacking,” he quips.

 

She looks at him, unamused. Jon bursts into laughter.

 

Sansa slaps his chest. “Stop laughing!”

 

He has to hand it to her—the idea is solid in theory, if only the fish would cooperate. Jon's not about to say that out loud, though Sansa is not particularly strong that he cannot take her occasional slap to the chest, his laughter is enough—he doesn't want to make her _too_ annoyed with him. Even if she does look incredibly cute like that.

 

"Let me help you," he says at last, willing away the humor from his voice. She huffs and turns away from him, back to her task. "Sansa, come on."

 

"I won't have you _mocking_ me, Jon Snow," she says, petulantly.

 

 _Definitely too adorable for her own good_. Gods, but he wishes he could kiss her frown away.

 

So lost is he in his own thoughts, Jon startles when Sansa lets out an excited shout.

 

She flashes him a brilliant smile over her shoulder, squealing, "I caught one, I caught one!" as she pulled on the net. "Jon, come see!"

 

Her joy is contagious; he can't help but grin in response. Coming closer, Jon gets to her side just as the net comes out of the water—and sure enough, there are two fishes trapped inside, thrashing against the confines of the net.

 

"Well done, Sansa."

 

Her smile is lovely, eyes shining with triumph as she bounces on her feet. He's about to lean in to get a closer look at their dinner, when Sansa surprises him—she throws her arms around his neck, hugging him tightly, and Jon thinks that will be all, but then… she _kisses_ him.

 

A light brush of her lips on his, he's not sure she's completely conscious of what she has done, probably just a reaction of her successful first attempt at fishing.

 

 _Yeah_ , Jon thinks, _this is just her joy overflowing_.

 

Which is why he shouldn't take advantage of the moment, shouldn't tread his fingers through her hair to prevent her retreat. He does, though, pulling her closer into a desperate kiss; nipping her bottom lip and delving his tongue inside her mouth, half expecting her to push him away.

 

Sansa kisses him back, just as urgently, just as needy; they let the kiss come to a slow end. She looks thoroughly ravaged, well and truly kissed. The thought makes him proud, makes his chest ache thinking about the very real possibility that there might not be next one.

 

She steps back then, slowly, blinks as if in a daze. Her cheeks are a bright red, she’s panting for breath and Jon can't stop himself from running the back of his fingers over the soft skin of her jaw.

 

_Gods be damned, she looks… radiant._

 

"Sansa."

 

"Yes?"

 

He strokes her face one last time before dropping his hand to his side. "Are you well?"

 

"Yes, just…" she trails off, meets his gaze and looks down shyly, “I just feel a bit dizzy, is all."

 

"Alright," he bends down to gather the net with their newly acquired food. "It’s getting late; we should go back now."

 

"Oh, but I wanted to catch some more."

 

He smiles indulgently. "The fish will still be here tomorrow."

 

"I wanted to give Ghost a treat too."

 

Jon looks at the catch; the two fishes are fairly big.

 

"This should be enough the three of us. Let's go back, Sansa."

 

The walk back is as he feared it would be— _silent_ , and with an underlying tension reminiscent of the one that befell them after they had found out their true identities. 

 

 _Don't think about that now, don't go there_ —it’s suffocating. He hates this feeling, but he won't apologize for kissing her. Not even—not even when he _should_. _She's not freaking out, though,_ he thinks, _or closing off_. _That ought to be a good sign._

 

Sansa speaks right as the entrance to the cave comes into view.

 

"Jon?"

 

"Yeah?"

 

"You're quiet. Are you well?“

 

Looking at her over his shoulder, Jon manages to muster a little smile. "Yeah, I’m fine, just… a little dizzy."

 

***

 

From there on, it is only a matter of following their routine.

 

She usually helps with preparing their food, but since this is the first time they'll be eating fish and she doesn't know how to clean it, Jon takes care of that, while Sansa goes to the hot springs for a bath.

 

He does his best not to think about her wet, naked body, but it's hard with the splashing sounds reaching his ears, bringing forth memories from the time they spent in those pools, exploring each other; before the revelation of who they were came crushing down on them.

 

Sansa begins humming a soft melody, so Jon focuses on that. The soothing sounds wash over him while he prepares their food. Ghost appears sometime in between, settles close to the fire, watching the fishes roast intently. His tongue comes out to wet his snout.

 

"See? Ghost wants his treat."

 

There's no lingering tension in her tone, nor her smile, and that makes him breathe easier. He smiles back.


	6. The Threat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa finds some relief. So does Jon... Until danger finds _them_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've been working on this chapter for a while, but as it got longer and longer we decided to split it and post some of it now so you guys don't have to wait so long. We apologize for the delay! The latest events had us a bit exhausted, haha. Anyways, hope you all enjoy! Next chapter shouldn't take as long since it's already underway...

Sansa tried not to dwell on the fact that she had kissed her half-brother _again_.

 

She knows she shouldn’t have, but the elation she felt at that first catch left her too euphoric to think before acting. It was impulsive of her, not to mention stupid, but she was willing to put it behind her—along with so many other things, she thought, it was best kept in the past.

 

Except…he kissed her back. So eagerly, too, like it was everything he ever wanted, and Sansa couldn’t, for the life of her, stop going back to that moment. In the days that followed, she would constantly think back on the fullness of his lips, the warmth of his mouth, the soft caress of his tongue—it all clung to her, a headiness she couldn’t get rid of. Despite days having passed, she could still taste him.

 

To make matters worse, she couldn’t stop _other_ memories from resurfacing as well. Sometimes she would be looking at him, nothing out of the ordinary, and then—then his body would move a certain way, or his eyes would catch hers, and suddenly she would be brought back to their first night in the cave. She shouldn’t shiver at that memory, shouldn’t feel wetness pooling between her legs—it was all incredibly inconvenient; a betrayal from her own body and mind.

 

Sansa often scolded herself. This was _not_ how she should be thinking of her half-brother.

 

Yet sometimes she allowed herself to wonder, just for a moment, what it would be like if Jon were not her brother, not even by half—would things be different, then? Would they be loving each other every night? The idea stole her breath away, but she repressed it soon after. It would not do to dwell on the impossible, she knew, and dreams like those were poisonous.

 

Still, it was terribly easy to forget that Jon was her brother; that looking at him shouldn’t make her skin feel afire; that they weren’t man and wife, and that she shouldn’t wish for them to be. She had to make an effort to remind herself of all this, especially when they spent most of their days together now, and even at night, he was never far.

 

It made sense that Jon laid his furs close to hers once again, but despite the warmth he brought with him, and his comforting presence easing her fitful sleep, it brought frustration as well. He would sleep right next to her, but still out of her reach. It was nothing short of maddening. She couldn’t touch Jon, and she couldn’t touch herself, either, not with him so close.

 

Maybe if she could find some time alone…but when? The only time Jon wasn’t with her was when they were outside, doing their daily tasks. Sansa didn’t like the idea of touching herself out in the wild, where anyone could happen upon her, but if it meant relieving some of the tension in her groin, well…she might have to settle for the discomfort of the outdoors.

 

After a particularly disquieting night, full of tossing and turning with her inconvenient need, Sansa decides she’s had enough. That morning, when they go their separate ways outside the cave, she tries to find a secluded spot amongst the scarce trees covered by snow.

 

Of course, there is the matter of Ghost. Jon always sends him with her when he couldn’t be there himself, and she couldn’t very well touch herself with his red eyes fixed on her.

 

“Ghost,” she says, in an assertive tone, “I need to be alone for a little while. Go for a walk.”

 

The wolf stares at her, tilting his head. She huffs.

 

“Go find a squirrel or something. I’ll be right here. Go!”

 

Ghost finally relents, his paws leaving large prints in the snow as he goes.

 

Sansa finds a sturdy chestnut tree to lean against, and decides that will have to do, shoving her hands inside her furs impatiently. Her fingers come in contact with the wetness of her center, ready since Jon had settled next to her the night before. It’s an instant relief, to finally be able to touch, to put pressure where she needs it most, and she keens at the feeling.

 

She closes her eyes as she slides two fingers up and down her folds, gathering wetness, before sinking inside. Sansa tries not to think of him, she really does, but her fingers feel so _small_ compared to how his manhood felt inside her that time—she curses under her breath, more unladylike than she’s ever allowed herself to be.

 

Even a third finger isn’t enough, she finds, so Sansa decides to circle that spot with the little bundle of nerves instead. A jolt goes through her body, electric and sharp, and she starts moving faster, in a frenzy. Her mind keeps replaying images of Jon, and Sansa is too weak to try to stop them from coming—she pictures his face, the scratchy feel of his beard; his coarse hands touching her skin; his body, every hard plane of muscle she wanted to trace with her fingertips. She imagines herself back at the cave, with Jon moving above her, and the image is so vivid, so searing, she quickly peaks, with his name on her tongue.

 

When she opens her eyes, she jumps—Ghost is back, with a dead squirrel in his mouth, staring unblinkingly at her.

 

***

 

It can't be a nightmare; those had gone away some time ago.

 

 _It's not the kiss either_ , he thinks, crouching low on the ground as his eyes finally lock on his prey. _She did not push me away, even if she might have been in the right to do so_.

 

After all, while she had taken the first step, Jon himself had taken it further than the light brush of lips she'd intended. Not that he could have resisted—all that time, his hand itched to draw her closer, pull her tighter. His arms still yearn to feel her fit perfectly between them and his body.

 

Jon shudders, shakes his head to clear it of his traitorous thoughts and focuses once again on their soon-to-be dinner. So it's not the nightmares, it's not the kiss, or even _him_ , something he might've done. But she is upset or, no, that's not the word, not upset—irritable, she's been irritable the past few days.

 

Lately Sansa has woken up abruptly, with a blush taking over her face sometimes, and unable to meet his eyes. Except for the times when she couldn't seem to be able to look away. And Jon—he knows not what to think. He wants to confront her; afraid they might slip back into the agonizing weeks of not speaking to one another; wants to tell her he's _right here_ , that she can rely on him, even with the little things.

 

 _We're partners now_ , he wants to say. They are supposed to help each other, support each other. _Let me help you, Sansa_. But she bounces back to her cheery self so fast, that there's never a good time to bring this possible problem up for discussion. She’s so eager to begin their day now that her skills have improved, that he doesn't have the heart to potentially break her bubble. He has to believe she would come to him if this, whatever it is that’s bothering her, is truly important.

 

Besides, it's not like he's without his own difficulties. Laying at night so close to her once again has sometimes left him with no other choice but to make quick excuses to find the nearest hidden spot to relieve the tension building in his body.

 

 _You take yourself in hand, Snow, don't try to sugarcoat it_. He does that, and bears her curious glances with as much grace as he can muster after he returns to her side; if he can't, he's quick to get them into their usual routine. He can only pray she suspects nothing of his early disappearances, suspects nothing of the urges that just won't go away.

 

Whatever the kiss had meant for her, for him, Jon is resolute in letting her take the next solid step. His musings have him distracted enough that he steps onto a branch, snapping it in half and alerting his prey. Jon groans as he watches the hare run away, knows it would be pointless to chase; he'll have to track it down again, carefully, or look for an alternative. Neither option is very appealing at the moment.

 

 _I am much too distracted today_. He sighs, closes his eyes and tilts his head back—a rush overcomes him, briefly, the faint taste of blood lingering on his tongue. Jon frowns. _Ghost?_

 

He walks towards the nearest tree, sits down to rest against it and closes his eyes. Evens out his breathing and then—he blinks. The snow covering the ground is not a shock, the bloodied paws trapping a dead squirrel are. _Ghost_. The direwolf shudders, shakes his head and lifts his eyes, surveying his surroundings before going back to his recent catch. That brief glance gives Jon enough information as to his whereabouts; mostly that he is alone, which means that _Sansa_ is alone. _Ghost, go to Sansa_. Again, the direwolf shakes his head, shakes his whole body, unused to having Jon warg into him.

 

 _Go to Sansa_ , he enforces his will. _Go back to her. It's not safe to leave her alone_. A few moments, but eventually the great direwolf listens to the whispers in his head, taking the dead squirrel in his in his mouth before retracing his steps.

 

He moves slowly through the trees, alert to any sound that might be out of place. Like _that_ sound, that wasn't—Ghost breaks into a run, the keening sound becoming louder as he neared the place where he'd left Sansa. As silent as his namesake, Ghost breaks through the tree line, comes to a halt a few steps away from his charge. The great direwolf tilts his head, not really comprehending what he sees, the dead animal in his mouth swaying with his movement.

 

He stays there, watching, unblinking, not reacting. Jon is another matter entirely. The shock rippling through him is almost enough to make him sever the connection to Ghost, _almost_. He can't look away. It’s Sansa, Sansa is... right there.

 

There's not much to see now, not that he would need it—his memory has proven adept at conjuring up images of their one and only time spent bare in front of each other. However, the hand that moves relentlessly under her furs is enough. Eyes closed, gasping for breath and hips bucking, she rides her own fingers until she reaches her peak. He wonder what she sees, in her mind, what pushes her to the brink, whose hand touches when she closes her eyes.

 

"Jon!" Sansa gasps, her eyes fluttering as they open and she jumps in shock—Jon feels himself lurching back; it’s like stumbling into his own body.

 

Jon pants, pushes off the tree and onto his knees. _What—what did I just...?_ It can't be, can it? Wishful thinking, that's what it is, because certainly, _certainly_ , Sansa is not, had not... touched herself while calling his name. _My name_. But it all had been too real, too vivid to be anything else; her sounds and the sinful way she'd rocked her hips into her hand…

 

Desire sweeps over him, swallowing him whole and Jon's barely aware of his own hand tugging at the furs to get to his throbbing cock. There's neither hesitation nor shame when he takes himself in hand; the sigh that escapes him is one of relief. His hand picks up a slow pace, intent on enjoying this. No need to hurry, Sansa is far away, and if she does stumble upon him… _She wouldn’t be disgusted_. Embarrassed perhaps, or aroused, even.

 

Jon strokes himself harder and faster to the sounds of the moans tumbling past her lips that still fill his head. He closes his eyes and sees her so very clearly, bundled up in furs and still chasing her peak. He can see her with the firelight in the background, that first night in the cave, haunting and lovely and so very, very tempting. He'd swear he can still taste her on his tongue, feel her clenching around his cock.

 

"Fuck." And to those memories, Jon spills into his hand, making a mess of his breeches. _Fuck_. He slumps against the tree trunk, catching his breath, suddenly feeling tempted to just lay back and relax despite his surroundings. With great effort, he fixes his furs and stands up. There's still some hunting to do.

 

***

 

When they meet up again, Sansa is still flustered. She also throws frustrated glares at Ghost, until she catches sight of him, and then she averts her eyes. Her face turns a dark shade of red as she stands there and shifts uncomfortably.

 

For a second, Jon knows acute panic, feels his heart stop and it's all he can do not to start apologizing. _She knows. She knows I warged into Ghost._

 

"I couldn't gather much." There's only a small bundle of edible berries in her arms; Jon wants to let the relief sweep over him, were it not for her refusal to meet his eyes. "I'm sorry."

 

He leans forward, tilting his head until he can catch her eye without having to touch her—he doesn't think he'd be able to control himself if he touches her now, however innocent it is.

 

"That's fine, Sansa, I caught some game, see?" Two hares, which is really plenty to last them enough that they might even rest tomorrow. "If you want..."

 

She finally looks up when his voice fails him, and he trails off. "If I want...?"

 

"We can go back to the river, put your net to good use again." Jon resists the urge to look aside, meets her gaze steadily.

 

Even when her cheeks bloom with color again, and his react much the same; it's the memory of what happened there, the kiss, the almost imperceptible shift of their relationship.

 

He's not certain if she is aware of the simple domesticity they've fallen into; how they work around the other, sometimes in perfect sync. He wonders if it's even conscious on her part, but doubts it; Jon wants to ask, but fears that bringing attention to it might make her stop. He likes how their routine has developed too much to risk it, so he keeps quiet, waits for her to notice on her own.

 

"No," she says at last. "No, that's fine, the hare will do for now."

 

***

 

“I thought you were sick of eating hares.” There’s an attempt at humour in his voice, and Sansa can’t fight back the smile that forms on her lips.

 

“I am! But it looks like there’s a storm coming, so I thought better not to go fishing today.” It was a lie, and Jon could probably tell—the skies had been clear that day. Thankfully, he was ever understanding, and didn’t mention it. She loved him for it.

 

“What food do you miss the most?” He asks.

 

Sansa instantly thinks of lemoncakes, how she hasn’t tasted one since she left the Eyrie. She opens her mouth to say so, but something else comes to mind, a memory so vivid it makes her mouth water. “Those pies Old Nan used to make.”

 

“With the peas and onions?” He smiles, and it’s sweeter than any lemoncake.

 

She nods. “They tasted of home.” Sansa thinks back on the castle that still haunted her dreams, and her smile cracks.

 

When she lifts her eyes to meet his, she finds the same sadness she feels reflected in them. They share a sense of companionship, of belonging, but also of loss—they were the only Starks left. The Blood of Winterfell.

 

Then she sees something else flash in his eyes—guilt. He had always been too prone to it, she knew. Sansa won’t have it, won’t let him slip into one of his sullen, self-pitying moods. Before he can berate himself for his choices, or apologize to her for any number of things he wrongly thinks are his fault, she speaks.

 

“We’re here now,” she says, grabbing his hand, “ _together_. That’s more than I could hope for.”

 

Jon squeezed her hand back, and she hoped he understood.

 

The Boltons may have their home, but they still had each other.

 

***

 

The next day was dark and cloudy, and Sansa wondered if they would have to retreat earlier to the cave. She and Jon had separated paths, as usual; Ghost had wandered off chasing game for himself, but Sansa wasn’t worried—the direwolf never strayed too far.

 

She sang to herself as she walked, her fishing net tied over one shoulder. The river came into view, its waters rushing past the frozen landscape. Snowflakes started to fall, catching on her lashes.

 

Usually Sansa enjoyed the snow, but today she felt the cold seep into her bones. She clutched her furs tighter around herself and kept walking, unwilling to go back to the cave empty-handed again.

 

Before she could reach the river, however, something made her stop. The cold she felt settled into her stomach, feeling a lot like dread. A chill coursed through her spine, as if someone was watching her. She strained her ears to hear anyone approaching, but the wind started howling, masking any other sounds. The snow fell heavier now, hitting her cold in the face and making it hard to see.

 

“Ghost?” she asked, hopeful, despite her instincts telling her she was wrong.

 

She prayed to see the wolf’s massive form approaching, white fur blended into the background, but it was fruitless. Instead, a human figure drew near. Sansa backed away, turning the other way to escape, when she saw another figure, much closer, effectively surrounding her.

 

Feeling a surge of panic, she shouted for Jon. Sansa knew he couldn’t hear her, he was too far. Still, her heart naively called for a hero. She should know better. She should have learned by now, life was not a song, and there were no heroes.

 

The men came closer, one on each side her. “What’s a pretty young thing like you doing alone out in the snow?” One of them asked.

 

Sansa swallowed and looked up at the man who spoke. He was big; taller than Jon, and looked strong under his furs, with eyes as sharp as the axe he carried in his left hand. His chapped lips curved into a cruel smile that made her squirm. The other one was smaller, thinner, with sly look about him. His semblance reminded her of Littlefinger, though the wildling was much younger.

 

She raised her chin, trying to appear brave, and spoke. “What do you want?”

 

Once again, it was the large man who spoke. “I’m looking for a wife t’ steal,” he said, still smiling, “and you happen t’ be the prettiest woman I ever seen.” His eyes raked up and down her body, with a darkness she knew well—it was desire. This man wanted her.

 

“She’s kissed by fire too, Rymund, that’s lucky, aye?” The other one offered.

 

The big one, Rymund, raised his hand to touch her hair, but in a bout of courage, Sansa slapped it away. “I already have a husband,” she lied. Wildling men didn’t steal wives, only daughters—or so Jon had told her. She hoped he was right.

 

The wildling didn’t blink. “And where’s this husband o’ yours?”

 

Sansa gulped. Before she could think of an answer, a different voice reached them.

 

“I’m right here.”

 

It was Jon. Sansa wanted to weep from relief. _Jon. Jon is here. He can pose as my husband and the men will leave,_ she thought. _We’re safe._

 

The wildlings appraised him, unimpressed despite Jon’s ferocious look and the sword strapped to his side.

 

“Sansa, come here,” Jon said in a commanding tone, eyes boring into the bigger wildling. Sansa moved to rush to his side before a hand stopped her, grasping her arm tightly and keeping her in place. She felt a spike of fear. _No. This isn’t right, they should be letting me go, this shouldn’t be happening._

“Let my wife go,” Jon growled. His hand gripped Longclaw’s hilt.

 

“You should be keeping a closer watch on her. Letting a beauty like this roam free…not very smart o’ you, is it?” said Rymund.

 

The other wildling spoke up, “Aye. If something were t’ happen t’ you, she’d be a widow, poor thing…”

 

Jon drew his sword. “If you want to take her, you’ll have to kill me first.”

 

The wildling pushed her aside. He twirled his axe in his hand with ease. “I s’pose I will. I’ll take yer pretty wife, and that shiny sword too.” His smile was mocking. “Two against one, the numbers are not on yer side.”

 

“That’s easily remedied,” said Jon. He brought two fingers to his lips and whistled, and Ghost appeared, running to his side.

 

The wildlings tensed, looking at the massive wolf who bared his teeth at them. The smaller one was trembling, his slyness gone. Suddenly he bolted, not sparing a single look at his companion, but Ghost gave chase.

 

Jon wasted no time, charging at the one remaining. In the distance, Ghost lunged at the scrawny wildling, and his screams filled the cold air.


	7. The Sight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some blood, some desperation, and some discoveries to go with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Truly sorry about the delay. Hope this makes up for it. xx

The big man throws Sansa to the side. Jon registers nothing but her pained grunt, and he’s suddenly filled with rage. Whatever plan he had, whatever semblance of control, scatters to the wind as he draws his sword in a wide arch and watches as the wildling barely manages to duck out of the way.

 

He twists out of the way of a falling axe, leaps forward for another thrust of his sword. The clash of steel against rusted iron echoes around the woods, satisfying and thrilling—for all Jon loathes to fight, to kill, there is some undeniable relief at being able to take out his frustrations this way.

 

They clash, over and over; dodge, twist out of the way, jump back, then lunge—a slash, a thrust, jabbing for an opening. Jon parries an attack and his world tilts briefly. The taste of blood explodes on his tongue and the feel of flesh and bone giving under pressure makes him growl.

 

Pain explodes on his shoulder; he blinks and his gaze focuses on the wildling’s savage grin. The man pushes forth and all Jon can process is Sansa’s scream. The world sways, he falls to his knees, and _how_ , _how did I miss that blow?_

 

“I got ye now, pretty boy.” Rymund, was it? Jon can’t recall, but he grabs Jon’s neck and lifts his axe to deliver the finishing blow. “Then I’ll take yer pretty wife, too.”

 

The blow never comes. There’s a blur and the wildling is cursing, falling to the ground and turning his back on him. _Sansa_. He struggles to stand up, just in time to see her swing that net of hers at the attacker and pull with all her might.

 

Jon’s world is spinning; the pain in his shoulder is too much, but he gathers the last of his strength and lunges once more, just as Rymund makes to grab her. He thrusts the blade forward and the steel sinks into the man’s back, pushing through until it sticks out of his chest.

 

“Jon!”

 

 _Aye, it’s over_. One last burst of energy and the dead man collapses on the snowy ground, silently bleeding out. Jon staggers back, reaches out jerkily to prevent his own oncoming fall—

 

“Jon!” Sansa breaks it, catches him before he hits the ground. Over her shoulder, he catches a glimpse of Ghost putting an end to the other agonizing man, and then the blood is rushing through him, muting the sounds around him. Sansa keeps calling his name, but he’s no longer in control of his sagging body. _I’m well_ , he wants to say, _don’t worry. I said I’d protect you, and I did._

 

“Sansa…” It’s only a whisper, and then darkness claims him.

 

***

 

“Jon?” She calls his name, but he doesn’t respond. His body sags in her arms, and it’s too heavy for her. She lays him down on the snow, looking him over to assess his injuries. There’s a cut in his thigh, which he didn’t seem to feel at all during the fight, but the blood is seeping from it in a steady flow…still, not as much as his right shoulder. When she looks at _that_ injury, she almost panics.

 

 _That’s too much blood_ , her fear screams. As terrified as she is, Sansa snaps her mind in place and _thinks_.

 

“Ghost!” She calls. The direwolf comes running, snout colored red with blood. “We need to get back to the cave, _fast_.” She has the wolf lay down so she can push Jon’s limp body onto its back. “Go!”

 

Ghost bolts, and Sansa grabs Jon’s sword before following their blurry form back to the cave. While she runs, she tries to keep out the dark thoughts that insist on plaguing her mind, the ones telling her he won’t survive this.

_He’s dying, and it’s your fault._

_He’s dying, just like the others did, and you’ll be alone again, in the middle of nowhere._

_This is the Gods’ punishment for your sins, and Jon will pay with his life._

Sansa shakes her head, runs faster, until her lungs burn with the effort and the only thing she can hear are her own heaving breaths.

 

When she gets to the cave, panting and sweating under her furs, she rushes to Ghost, relieving him of Jon’s weight. She lays him down atop his sleeping furs and rushes to undress him.

 

Once again, she feels panic bubbling up at the sight his wounds, but does her best to swallow it down. She says a desperate prayer in her head, to whatever Gods who’ll listen— _Please, please, let him live. Don’t take him from me, please. He’s all I have._ She didn’t think she believed in any gods anymore, but if there was a time for faith, it was now.

 

Sansa grabs a waterskin and cuts strips off her old dress with a knife. She returns to Jon’s side, washing away the blood from his cuts. _Don’t die, don’t die, don’t die. Please._ She repeats the mantra in her mind as she works, cleaning the skin, bringing the edges of the cuts together before tying the fabric tightly around them.

 

When she’s done, she feels his forehead. _No fever, that’s good._ Her heart still thumps painfully in her chest, and she pays attention to his shallow breaths to make sure she won’t miss it if he stops breathing. _What would I do if he did?_ She asks herself. _I could give him the kiss of life…_

 

Just as she thinks it, Jon’s eyes open and he inhales sharply. Sansa feels like she can breathe again, and her hands fly to caress his face.

 

“You’re alive,” she breathes. She rests her forehead against his, and before she knows it, tears are sliding down her cheeks. “You’re alive,” She repeats, almost disbelieving.

 

Jon looks up at her, dazed. “Sansa?” He asks, voice no more than a whisper.

 

“It’s alright.” She nods. “I’m here. I’m not losing you,” she promises.

 

Sansa looks down at him, takes in every inch of his face until their gazes lock. The dark gray of his eyes is reassuring; it pulls her in until there’s nothing else on her mind. _He’s here. He’s alive. No one is taking him from me._

She brings her mouth to his.

 

***

 

Jon is immersed in darkness. He floats in a dark, cold ocean, nothing around him but silent waves that lap at his skin, until little by little, colorful visions swim behind his eyelids. The steel of a sword cutting through the cold air. The white of snow. The red of blood. The blue of Sansa’s eyes, and the rich, shiny copper of her hair. _Sansa_. Was she safe? She had to be. He’d die fighting for her if he had to—perhaps he _had,_ but hopefully he’d taken the wildling with him to whatever hell the gods had prepared, so she would be safe. That’s all he prayed for.

 

Jon can taste blood, bitter and metallic in his mouth, but the smell of flowers is so sweet he almost doesn’t mind. There’s no water here, no darkness, only stone. A tower, or a castle, warm like home. He’s not so cold now. Something had pulled him from whatever strange place he had been in—and then a voice, a kind voice, calling a strange name, but singing so softly… _A song of promises, and tragedy, too,_ Jon thought.

 

His lungs fill with air the same time as his eyes fly open, but Jon wonders if he’s still dreaming. _Sansa is here_. She’s close, and she’s talking to him, caressing his face as she whispers sweet nothings, and then—her _lips._ She kisses him as if their lives depended on it, and the fog seems to lift from his mind.

 

Sansa keeps kissing him, and he can taste the salt of her tears between bated breaths. Jon doesn’t care if he’s injured or dead; all he cares about is _her_ —her legs climbing over him and settling at his sides; her hands clutching him close and closer, as if she meant to crawl into him and never leave. _But hasn’t she, already?_ Sansa had found a way into his heart, taking home inside and refusing to leave ever since.

 

He’s never felt so alive. His body sings with his need for her, and she responds, undressing urgently, tossing her away furs carelessly.

 

“Jon. My Jon,” she whispers between kisses, as she feels for his manhood between them, finding it hard and ready for her. Sansa sinks down on him, taking him inside her slick warmth, and Jon thinks he might be in heaven after all.

 

He lets her set the pace, not sure if he could do much more than grasp her thighs as she moves above him. There’s no pain, not yet, though snippets of the fight come back to him in flashes. His blood hums and his heart beats like a drum— _alive, we’re alive_.

 

“Sansa…” he moans, half relieved and half desperate; begging, but not knowing what for.

 

“I’m here. Jon, I’m here.” She coos, ever so gently, while her hips roll back and forth, letting him almost slip out before she takes him inside again, and fiercely stokes the fire growing between them.

 

Jon wants to do more, to hold her closer and love her harder, so he tries to bend his legs—a sharp pain hits him, making him groan, and Sansa stops.

 

“Please,” he asks, little more than a groan from clenched teeth. “Don’t…stop.” Jon thinks he might die if she does.

 

“Jon, don’t move…” She sighs and caresses his face again, “Let me take care of you.” Kissing him, Sansa starts to move again, but slower. It felt better that way—closer, more intimate, as if they could love each other that way forever.

 

The pain ebbs away and he looks up at her; she’s no less than a vision, a _goddess_ , moving above him in a glorious cadence. Her breasts bounce with each snap of her hips, and her hair falls forward to cover her pink nipples until Jon decides to run his fingers through it and sweep it behind her shoulders. There’s a flush building all the way from her chest to her neck, up to her cheeks, and her eyes shine bright despite the low lighting of the cave. Jon feels the squelch of her walls, wet and hot, perfect, and real, and _just for him_ , and he knows it won’t be long until he peaks.

 

Sansa looks into his eyes, mouth opening as she moans his name a last time and clenches around him, and that does it—he bursts inside her, filling her up as he long dreamed of doing. She breathes heavily, chest heaving against his, and rests her head on the crook of his shoulder, laying kisses on his damp skin until he falls asleep.

 

***

 

When she wakes up, Sansa is still holding him tightly beneath the furs, unwilling to be separate from him. She feels Jon’s heartbeat beneath her fingertips on his chest, counting each one as a victory.

 

 _He lived._ She feels like crying again, at how close she’d felt from losing him. But Jon was alive, and she loved him, and—she _loved_ him. Her half-brother. Sansa bites her lip, keeping a sob from falling out and waking him.

 

 _But he lived._ Her mind’s voice argued. Maybe the gods didn’t curse them, maybe they didn’t hate them so... _And maybe their punishment was on its way still,_ a darker voice whispered.

 

She burrowed closer to him, wanting to hide from her fears. Maybe if she buried her nose in his hair and drew the furs over their heads it would work. That’s what she used to tell her little brothers whenever they were scared. _Where would they be now_ , she wondered, before remembering they were all dead—all but Jon.

 

After allowing herself one more moment of respite, Sansa sat up to check Jon’s injuries. His shoulder had stopped bleeding overnight, it seemed, but the makeshift bandages she had used were stained dark with dried blood, and she would have to cut more fabric from her dress to change them. His leg seemed to fare better. When she got up to get dressed, Jon started mumbling.

 

Sansa checked their water supply. She had used almost all of it last night when cleaning his injuries, but there was enough for them to drink this morning, before she had to go out to get more by the river. She would have to find them food, too—there was no chance she would let Jon get up and hunt in his current state. He needed rest.

 

They hadn’t rested last night, she realized with a blush.

 

Jon opened his eyes and whined, “Sansa, get back here.”

 

She knelt by his side and brought the waterskin to his mouth. “Drink.”

 

He did as he was bid, swallowing while keeping his eyes fixed on hers.

 

“How are you feeling? Are you in pain?” She asked him when he was done.

 

“I’m fine, don’t worry.” He smiled, but it did not reach his eyes.

 

“I can tell you’re lying. I’m sorry we don’t have any milk of the poppy, or wine, or…”

 

“—It’s okay, Sansa. I’ve lived through worse.” He reached for her hand. “Just stay with me, all right?”

 

She got up slowly, not meeting his eyes. “I…I need to go to the river. We’re out of drinking water.”

 

Jon’s eyes widened. “ _No_. Sansa, that’s where those men found you, I’m not letting you go back there alone ever again!” He protested.

 

“ _Let me?_ Jon, without water we’ll die, and you’re in no condition to go with me. We might survive off of squirrels and rabbits if Ghost brings us some, but he can’t fill up our waterskins, and we can’t drink the water from the cave.”

 

He huffed; pushing himself up until a pained grunt makes him stop. Sansa rushed to his side again, holding him down.

 

“ _Don’t!_ Your wounds just started closing! They’ll bleed again if you move too much!” She scolded.

 

His face was still contorted in pain.   

 

“Jon. Promise me you won’t do anything stupid.”

 

“ _Ugh…_ Promise me you’ll come back.”

 

“I promise,” she tells him, feeling herself melt. She lays a kiss on his cheek before rising, and his face softens with a smile.

 

“Take Ghost with you. Don’t let him wander off this time.”

 

***

 

Jon warged into Ghost as soon as she was out of the cave. He couldn’t stop himself, needing to keep watch over her, afraid that if his eyes strayed even for one moment, Sansa would be in danger again. She went about it quickly, as she’d promised, filling up their skins with water before they made their way back to the cave.

 

He stopped warging just as they enter the cave, letting Ghost go hunting once Sansa was safe inside with him again. She fussed over him as soon as she arrived, cleaning his wounds and changing his bandages, covering him up to the chin with furs. Sansa’s cool hands checked him for a fever, and once Ghost came back, she roasted him a fat squirrel and fed him from her own hands.

 

Jon has never felt so cared for in his life. Whenever he fell ill as a child, he’d only had the maester to look after him. His father would pay him a visit, of course, but his lordly duties took much of his time, so he never stayed long. Lady Catelyn would not bother with him; servants would bring him meals to his bed and he would eat on his own, until he was fit to go back to playing with his siblings outside. Luckily, he was bastard strong, so he never stayed sick for long.

 

“Thank you, Sansa.” He says earnestly when she’s done feeding him another drink from the waterskin.

 

She smiles kindly back at him. “You’re welcome. How are you feeling?”

 

His shoulder throbs, and his thigh as well, but all he says is, “perfect.”

 

***

 

“A man could get used to this, you know?” he says, a week later, as she feeds him a piece of hare. She’s still not letting him rise to do anything but his necessities. Whenever she has to help him rise and walk outside the cave, leaning his weight on her shoulders, it feels painfully awkward, though she leaves him for a few moments while he does them. It’s hardly courteous, but she supposes there’s not much else they can do about it. Sansa never thought she would miss a privy or a chamberpot so much.

 

“Being spoiled?” she asks.

 

“Being cared for,” he responds with a grin.

 

 _Being loved_ , she almost says, but instead, “I’ll take care of you as long as you need.”

 

Jon looks at her with a lopsided smile that makes her stomach do somersaults.  

 

She’s gotten used to looking after Jon and going outside alone every day, though Ghost never let her out of his sight again. That day, she had just finished filling the waterskins by the river when Ghost started to nudge her, clearly agitated. His ears were pointing up, as were the hairs on the back of his neck.

 

“What is it, boy?” She asked him, and he set off, looking behind him to make sure she was following. Sansa did, until they were hidden behind a thick tree trunk, feeling something fierce coursing through her veins as she looked behind it. Could it be more wildlings? Would they take her time, leaving Jon to die alone in the cave? She shuddered at the thought.

 

Her fears proved unfounded—but worse, much worse—when a party of men, about twenty strong, with just as many horses, trotted through the snow a few miles downstream. Some wore the black of the Night’s Watch, but most wore familiar southern garb—armor lined with fur in the style of Petyr’s men from the Vale. Sansa shivered. She hid behind the tree again, taking deep breaths to stifle the oncoming panic.

 

She had to get back to Jon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let us know if you missed us and if you liked it in the comments! <3


End file.
